The Body
by DaysEye123
Summary: Molly is in the morgue, working on a body. This time it's different and it frightens her, but she does it; he needs her. Her actions cause emotions to be stirred up - some unexpected - but were her efforts all in vain? Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my second fanfic, basically a theory about how Sherlock survived the fall – yes, I know I'm jumping on the bandwagon here! I think there'll be a couple of chapters, maybe three. There's some subtle one-sided Sherlock/Molly, but later I might develop that bit into some Sherlolly – it depends on how the tone of the piece works, whether it'd be appropriate, etc. **

**Please please please review – it's appreciated a lot! **

**Disclaimer: Obviously, as much as I'd like to say I do, I do not own Sherlock, or any of the characters or storylines. They all belong to the BBC, and the geniuses that are Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

**Enjoy **

Molly stared down at the long, pale body on the slab. This felt wrong. For once, the pathologist had to work up to actually touching the corpse – something which she did on a regular basis, but which felt so huge today.

'_What do you need?'_

Whatever answer she had expected, it certainly wasn't this. She fixed her eyes on his face, and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the slab tightly. Too tightly. Her shoulders sagged, and she turned away, rubbing her hands together where the slab had left deep, red welts. She took a deep breath, and turned round again to face him.

"Come on, Molly. It's just another body…" she muttered to herself.

She stopped again, staring him. Her heart was in her mouth, filling her throat and gagging her. She reached out for her tools, holding them like a shield between her and the body. She couldn't do it. She couldn't – not _this, _not to this body. It was just… wrong, and she couldn't do it.

Molly threw her stuff down and shrugged out of her lab coat, retreating into the safety of her lab, and making a cup of strong coffee. The smell was rich, deep and full, and she gripped the hot mug with both hands, ignoring the way the drink scalded her throat.

She spat it out.

Why had she made it that strong? It was enough to blow somebody's head off. As she turned to find a cloth to mop the mess up with, she caught sight of the corpse through the frosted glass. His curly hair, his snowy skin, his lanky form covered by the sheet.

"_What do you need?"_

"_You."_

He needed her to do this. What was so wrong about it anyway? Would it really be so bad… if it was to help him? To help him deal with J – Moriarty?

A series of memories assaulted her, knocking her off balance. They were dangerous memories, memories that she was fighting to keep behind the mental wall that she'd built herself. She concentrated on that now, on pushing the memories back. She opened her eyes, and blinked as neon spots danced before her. She shook her head, and several locks of warm, brunette hair escaped her ponytail and fell in front of her face.

If she wanted those memories to be safe again, if she wanted to be able to sleep at night, she would have to do it. She rubbed her tired eyes and downed the rest of her coffee in one huge, unladylike gulp, and marched back towards the slab, grabbing her lab coat and swinging it over her shoulders.

Besides, he needed her.

She could kid herself all she liked that she was doing this to be rid of that man and those memories, she could say that she was only doing it to benefit everyone, but in truth, she was doing it for him. But then again, she thought, everything I do is for him now, isn't it?

"_I'm not okay."_

"_Tell me what's wrong."_

_He ducked his head, and then stood up to face her. Even now, even in this situation, her breath caught in her throat as he looked her in the eye._

"_I think I'm going to die."_

_Molly felt her heart stop. Just one beat, but she could have sworn she missed it. He… he couldn't die. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was the one constant thing on her mind, the whole time. His eyes, his mind, his… Sherlock-ness. She couldn't let him die; she needed him. Everyone needed him, but not as much as her. She wouldn't lose him._

"_What do you need?"_

"_If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am," he said quietly, walking towards her, "would you still want to help me?"_

_Of course. Of course she'd still want to help him. He was close enough now that she was trapped in a tiny space between him and the wall, and she could feel the warmth of his body radiating into hers. She felt a strong urge to drop her eyes and look at her feet, anything to escape the pressure, the dizzying thoughts and worries hurtling through her. But she didn't; he needed her. She concentrated on his eyes, keeping her body still and breathing even._

"_What do you need?"_

"_You."_

He'd told her what he needed, he'd told her what she had to do, and while he was there, she'd had no doubts. She would do anything for him. She faced the corpse once again, and fixed an image of Sherlock's face in her head, her need to fight the lines of anxiety on his face giving her the strength to do it. He'd looked so distressed, so vulnerable… it had left a dull ache in her chest, and she couldn't ignore it. He needed her to do this one thing. Not letting herself thing about it, she took the first step, and placed her clammy palm on the corpse's cheek.

From then on, it was easy.

Just another corpse.

Admittedly, this one was stranger than the others. She'd never done anything quite like this to a body before, and had to sing to herself to repel the bad thoughts in her head, to keep back the eyes she felt watching her.

So, Molly Hooper worked.

She began with his face, scraping at the skin on one side of it, as if it had smacked the pavement. She grabbed a kohl pencil and shaded his eyebrows until they were dark enough. Then, she eased the body into the right position to lean his head over a bowl, and rummaged in her bag until she found the bottle of black hair dye she'd bought earlier. She quickly read the instructions and carried them out, until around his face a mop of ebony curls bounced. She took the clothes and frantically stuffed his limbs into them, singing shrilly to keep the shadows from scaring her. Her voice echoed in the empty space, and came back to her as she threaded the packets of his blood underneath the clothes and secured them. Then, she carried on working, all the while thinking of the face that haunted her.

When she finally stood back, an almost perfect Sherlock lay on the table before her.

He wasn't quite right.

His ears were the wrong shape.

His lips weren't quite full enough.

His cheekbones weren't high enough – although she'd done her best to highlight them.

His fingers were too short, the nails rough and bitten. So unlike Sherlock.

His jaw wasn't right – even though she'd spent ages trying to shade it, to create the illusion of its shape.

There was one final thing. She had to do it now or she'd never work up to it. She gingerly placed her fingers on the closed eyes of the corpse, and slid them open. A glassy, blue gaze met her eyes, but didn't see her. She fell away, gasping, and threw the sheet over his head, to hide those blank eyes away. She took a moment to calm herself.

Molly sighed. There was nothing else she could do. He was as good as he was going to get. As she started packing her things away, somebody coughed behind her. She jumped, her heart thundering, and span round to face whoever it was. All she could hear was the blood rushing through her ears, and she didn't notice the stack of used coffee cups she'd accumulated until they were lying in pieces on the floor. She stared, wide-eyed into the darkness around the door to the morgue, and could just make out a figure, silhouetted by the light from the lab. He stepped forwards.

She instinctively took a step backwards, and slipped on the broken crockery. Her foot skidded wildly, and she grabbed hold of the slab for support. She stood upright and kicked a few pieces of mug away from her, her nerves shot and jangling, her limbs weak with exhaustion.

"You alright, Molly?" John asked. He made to reach towards her, to steady her, but she quickly stood up and brushed herself off, making out like she was fine. She walked towards him to keep him as far away from the body as possible.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, thanks," she smiled, hoping it was convincing.

"Good. I was just wondering – Sherlock hasn't been to see you, has he? Only… well, I need to find him and I can't."

Molly looked at him. He was hiding something. Well, so was she. She bit her lip and stared at her feet, forcing herself not to so much as glance at the corpse on her slab. She dragged her gaze up to meet his.

"Only, I tried Mycroft, and back at the flat, but he wasn't anywhere." John said.

Molly didn't have to act very much to look worried. She looked John in the eye, concentrating on the colour to keep herself from glancing back down again. She hated lying to him, but it had to be done. She had to protect him. She had to protect them both.

"I'm sorry John; he hasn't been to see me since he brought those samples at lunchtime. Um… he doesn't really pop in here unless it's business."

John looked guilty, but only for a second. He knew how Molly felt about Sherlock, and hated to see her looking so dejected.

"Thanks, Molls."

He rushed out of the morgue, pulling his phone from his pocket as it beeped.

Molly watched him go, and then turned back to the corpse. It was now or never.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again. Sorry I haven't updated for a while, I've been really busy recently. Updates should be more frequent now, providing I manage to avoid the curse that is writer's block! I'm still not entirely sure where this is going, but for now I'm content to let it write itself.**

**Disclaimer: Again, Sherlock and the characters and the storyline my fanfic is based on do not belong to me (no matter how much I wish they did) but to the BBC, and the brilliant Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

**Reviews are still appreciated more than I can express – so please click that little button and give me your honest opinion, whether you liked it or not! Thank-you to those who have reviewed so far.**

**Enjoy.**

Molly delved into her pocket, fingers scrabbling around until they found purchase on her little battered Nokia. Her thoughts briefly flew to how Sherlock had scoffed at it when she brought it out, when they were planning this whole operation. Yes, he had stopped her from having any sleep, yes, she was surviving on coffee and adrenalin and _yes, _she was scared witless… but she had to admit, it was all rather exciting. She felt like she was in a fast-paced crime novel. The plotting in the depths of the night, the danger… the whole thing felt quite romantic.

She immediately shook her head. Whatever context it was used in, _romantic _was not a word she associated with herself, and certainly not him. Anyway, she needed to stop this silly daydreaming. She was just the help, the last desperate last resort. Molly forced herself to concentrate, to keep her mind focused on the task at hand. She couldn't afford to succumb to silly daydreams, not now. She quickly punched in a text and then stared at the screen, waiting numbly for a reply. Her eyes fixed on the body again, but she wasn't really seeing it. She wondered vaguely where he was, what he was doing. He'd been evasive when she'd asked him what he'd be doing. It had left her feeling a little miffed that he didn't trust her enough to tell her, but she had let it go. He trusted her enough to ask for her help, and that was enough.

Her phone beeped, and she jumped as it shocked her out of her trance. The silver brick skittered across the floor, and she knelt down to grab it. It had gone under her desk, and in her desperation to see that text, she wedged her whole arm into the tiny, dark gap, and felt her fingers brush it slightly. With the edge of the desk now cutting painfully into her shoulder, she inched forwards and managed to slide it towards her.

She sank back onto her knees, bending low over the phone and bringing up the messages. As they loaded (hurry up, hurry up! God, she needed a new mobile) she rubbed her shoulder. Somebody coughed behind her. She leapt upwards, whirling around in shock, before realising who it was. Then she realised that he might have been standing there for a little while. She felt her cheeks glow with heat, and dropped her eyes. The text stared back at her.

_Everything set here – John just been looking 4 u. B careful. M x_

_I'm coming – S.H_

Molly glanced up at his face. His cool blue eyes bore into hers, his eyebrow raised. She slid her gaze back down to her feet, trying to think of something intelligent to say.

"Um…"

There was an awkward pause, which Molly filled by shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, Sherlock decided to break the heavy silence.

"Molly, I'm sure there's a perfectly sensible reason for you to be on the floor on your hands and knees. Judging by your smudged mascara and the quite frankly huge bags under your eyes, you've gone without sleep for too long, so your text alert made you drop your phone in shock."

Molly self-consciously touched the delicate skin under her eyes. Even now, even _now_ he couldn't resist, could he?

Sherlock waited for a moment, and sighed.

"Molly, could you show me the body, please?"

She flinched out of her reverie, her eyes widening as she remembered what she was supposed to be doing.

"Oh! Oh, yes, sorry…"

She led Sherlock to the defiled corpse and drew back the sheet, staring determinedly at one of its shirt buttons so she didn't have to look into those unseeing eyes. She felt nervous again, thinking how wrong it was to mess with somebody's (she couldn't quite bear to look up who it was; a name would make him a person again) corpse. She silence intensified as Sherlock took her work in, until in weighed down on her so much that she found her mouth moving of its own accord to keep it (and those eyes) at bay.

"I know it's not perfect, but it's not bad – I mean obviously I couldn't do anything about the shape of his… um… your… the ears without cutting them off and making plastacine models, and I know the eyes aren't quite the right shade but I didn't have time to get contacts… um I did try to get his face to look right but there's a few things that are off…"

Sherlock had now turned to her, an amused smile touching the corners of his mouth. Molly trailed off into silence, realising how crazy she sounded. Oh god, that was why he'd chosen her to do it wasn't it? He must think she was some sort of stalker.

"Um… anyway… will he – you – it – do?"

Sherlock turned away again, gazing into the glazed eyes of the corpse.

"It's very good Molly. Very good… it'll do nicely. The imperfections aren't as extreme as you're making out, although they are there. I daresay I'll think of something to sort it out."

A thought struck Molly suddenly. There was something, something that despite all of their meticulous plotting, that they'd overseen.

"What if John recognises it isn't you? I- I mean of all the people in the world, he's the one who's bound to notice."

Sherlock span away from her on his heel, walking back towards the lab. He placed his hands on Molly's desk and then hopped into a chair, pressing his fingers against his temples.

"Sherlock…?"

He glanced up at her briefly.

"Hush, Molly. I'm thinking, and you're being a distraction. I don't have enough time for distractions."

Molly tried very hard right then not to over-analyse what he said.

She realised she was still standing in a pile of broken mugs, and went away to collect a dustpan and brush to clear it up. When she returned, Sherlock was still sitting in exactly the same position. She fought the urge to roll her eyes, and bent over to sweep up the clinking crockery.

"Distractions, Molly," Sherlock muttered.

Molly straightened up quickly, her cheeks on fire.

"I need silence, and that is breaking the silence. Honestly Molly, you know this already."

Of course.

An idea came to her, and she dropped the crockery and the dustpan with a loud clatter. She went over to Sherlock and managed to look him in the eye as he glared at her for breaking his concentration.

"What?" He snapped.

"Well… I was just thinking… if me sweeping up broken cups is enough to distract you from something important, why don't you just distract John from seeing the body clearly?"

"Don't be stupid, Molly. I am John's best friend; I highly doubt that I can do something to distract him from my suicide."

Molly turned away, embarrassed, and went to her computer to avoid Sherlock's scathing look. She stiffened when he suddenly grabbed her forearm. She'd pushed the sleeves of her top up to her elbows, and at the contact of his surprisingly warm hand on her skin, she had to fight to suppress a shiver. _Oh, grow up, Hooper,_ she chided herself. Even so, as he spoke, she didn't hear a word of it as a tingle spread from her arm, right into her bones.

"Pardon?" she mumbled.

"Molly, listen to me. I need you to go to the underground station and look for a homeless man. His name is Sampson. Tell him… no, you'll forget," he said impatiently. She felt a flash of annoyance that he didn't trust her to relay a message, but she didn't comment. After all, he trusted her enough to include her, and she supposed it could be a very long message. He released her arm and scribbled a note in an illegible hand. He gave it to her and stood up, marching over to the body.

"Hurry, Molly – there isn't time to dawdle if this plan is going to work."

She stared at his back in disbelief. After all they'd planned, all they'd done together… he would just brush her off like that.

"I was going, Sherlock," she said.

He turned to her, and she saw him clearly for the first time since he'd come into her lab again. His completely dishevelled hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the distant look in them. He looked at her, but she knew he wasn't seeing her. He was seeing the plan, laid out in front of him as he scrutinized it. His unseeing eyes reminded her too much of the corpse.

"Sherlock… please be careful, okay? You're not meant to actually get killed… it's not part of the plan. Please, Sherlock… I – I know what Jim's capable of," she said.

Perhaps it was that name that snapped him out of it. He walked towards her, some strange look in his eyes that she hadn't seen there ever before.

"I know, Molly."

He was standing very close to her again; seemingly unaware of how fast it made her heart pump. When he spoke, it was quiet and slow, as though he didn't want startle her. Christ, she thought, I must seem a wreck.

"I can get rid of him; I just need you to do this extra thing for me. Just one more detail to the plan. You'll be safe, I promise – he doesn't think you count."

Molly looked at the floor, unable to withstand the intense, piercing eyes that bored into hers. The words were out before she could stop them falling from her lips, and she instantly flushed scarlet, looking at his face for a reaction.

"Will you be safe?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a tiny smile. Molly felt her heart melt and seep into her bones.

"Of course not. But I know what I'm doing. After all, I am _me._"


End file.
